


Andrew Wells' Do-It-Yourself Guide to Letting Go and Moving On

by KiranInBlue



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comics)
Genre: Implied Past Abuse, M/M, Moving On, Post-Chosen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 08:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2686808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiranInBlue/pseuds/KiranInBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three moments over three years in which Andrew thought about Warren.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As the dust settled in the Roman catacombs deep under the city, Andrew found himself standing at the center of a gruesome battlefield. The bodies of Amy’s goatmen lay in large puddles of blood and demon pus, surrounded by the shattered skeletons of their summoning ritual. The Slayers were crouched along the walls of the catacomb, tending to their wounds in shocked silence. Erika was attempting to stem the flow from a nasty cut on her forehead, and Kayla had a hand pressed to her side as she panted in short, painful breaths; it seemed that she had broken a few ribs. Thankfully, they were all still upright.

All except for Posey, that was.

She still lay crumpled on the stone floor, a pool of her own blood trickling from her abdomen and her split lip. She hadn’t moved throughout the entire course of the fight.

Andrew dropped to his knees beside her and fumbled for her wrist. It was a task that was made difficult by the fact that her arm seemed to keep slipping from his grasp. But eventually, he managed to get a firm grip, and he pressed two fingers to her skin.

There was a pulse. Andrew heaved a sigh of relief.

He wrenched the sweatshirt off his shoulders and balled it up into a tight wad; firmly, he pressed the fabric against the wound in Posey’s abdomen, one hand still on her pulse point.

“She needs treatment – now!” Andrew’s voice sounded unusually loud in the otherwise empty echo of the catacomb. “Who can carry her? We need to get her to the hospital.”

“I can.” Saanvi pushed herself from the wall, her hand falling away from her right shoulder, where a nasty purple bruise was beginning to form.

She crouched down beside Andrew and gathered Posey’s limp body up into her arms.

“You got that okay?” Andrew asked, as she straightened again.

“Yeah. Don’t worry – I’ll call you when we get into the emergency room.”

“Good.”

Saanvi turned toward the tunnel, and Andrew staggered to his feet. With a quick gaze, he took in the extent of his other Slayers’ injuries: besides the cut at Erika’s temple and Kayla’s broken ribs, there seemed to be a few sprains, a handful of lacerations, and a sizable collection of bruises. Nothing they couldn’t treat themselves.

“Uh . . . Mr. Wells?” Little Marie had taken a timid step forward, her eyes wide.

Andrew glanced at her. “Are you hurt?”

“Um . . . no. But are _you_ okay? You’re shaking.”

Andrew glanced down. Marie was right; his hands were slightly, but perceptibly, trembling. He clenched them into fists and dropped them back to his sides.

“I’m fine.”

“But—“

“We need to regroup,” Andrew said firmly. “Erika, call local HQ. Tell them we have incoming casualties, and to prepare for a full retreat. And I’m going to contact Scotland – we’ll leave tonight.”

The others stared.

“Retreat?” Kayla echoed, sounding stunned.

“We’re falling back to central HQ,” Andrew stated.

“But . . . why? We’re okay. We fought them off – they’re gone.”

“We have been compromised,” he replied sharply. “And protocol clearly dictates that when a squad has been compromised, they must fall back to Scotland!”

“It was just a patrol ambush!” It was Sabina who spoke up this time, her voice shrill with disbelief. “Our headquarters are secure, and we have another twenty Slayers to call on for backup!”

“ _I am your Watcher!”_ Andrew snapped. “I am ordering a retreat, and you will follow!”

Didn’t they see? Of course they were vulnerable, of course they were in danger – _Warren was in Rome_!

Andrew was breath sounded harsh and heavy in his ears, and there were dark spots dancing in his vision.

No matter how many layers of security Andrew lay over the Italian headquarters, it would never be enough – not where Warren was concerned. Warren could worm his way into any defense Andrew constructed, seep through his resolve like noxious gas and poison everything Andrew had to live for from the inside out.

It didn’t matter that Andrew knew Warren couldn’t be trusted; it didn’t matter that Andrew knew better than to long for Warren’s smile. Warren had a way with words that even Andrew didn’t; whereas Andrew wove stories, Warren wove ideologies. Warren had undeniable power, and to ignore it would be worse than foolish – it would be _deadly._

It’s what Warren did. No matter how Andrew defended himself, no matter what he believed or knew, Warren worked his way in and twisted and pulled until everything collapsed around him. Andrew had neverbeen able to resist him. Warren had sucked him into a world of ingenious gadgets and instant gratification, and even when it’d meant blood and abandonment and death, Andrew had clung to the shiny promises of a ghostly voice. And again – Andrew watched as everything he had left in the world bled out on the ground before him.

And again. The image of Andrew’s siren stood in the living room of Buffy’s house, _corporeal_ , and Andrew rushed forward, relief flooding his mind.

And again. Warren murmured empty apologies, and Andrew wasn’t listening; Andrew didn’t believe him, but it still wasn’t enough, and suddenly Posey was unconscious, struck down by a demon Andrew had been too distracted to hear approach.

And again. Chaos broke out, and the Slayers were fighting for their lives, and Andrew leapt into the fray to defend them – pushing Warren behind him as he jumped at a goatman with a makeshift club.

Andrew was supposed to be free of Warren now. For eighteen months, he’d been safe. But suddenly Warren was back, and Posey was bleeding out, and his Slayers were standing, staring at him with wide-eyed, startled expressions.

He was their _Watcher_. That meant it was his job to train them, guide them, lead them – and above all, _protect them_. But Warren was back. And as long as Andrew loved a dead man walking, he couldn’t keep them safe.

“We’re going to . . . to Scotland,” he said again, and this time, his voice cracked.

“ . . . Okay,” Sabina replied.

For a moment, they all stood, unmoving, in the silent catacomb.

Then Marie stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Andrew’s still-trembling shoulders. As the warmth seeped in through the fabric of his shirt, Andrew curled in toward her, and, finally, he cried.  


	2. Chapter 2

Andrew lay curled up on his bed, his comforter balled up in his arms, as he stared blankly at the wall in front of him. Darkness had fallen about an hour ago, but he hadn’t bothered to get up and turn on the lights. Gentle, mournful music filled the room, pumped from the speakers mounted on Andrew’s desk. A stereo remote lay on the pillow beside him, and as the final chords of the song began to fade out, he picked it up and spun the volume dial up.

The next song began to play, still slow and gentle, but the louder, pulsing melody made the room feel as if it were breathing. Andrew let out a heavy sigh and pressed his face into his pillow.

“ _You’re still trying to impress Warren, even now,_ ” Buffy had told him, her expression drawn. _“You know how lame that is_?”

Andrew’s first instinct was to recoil, to insist that he most certainly _was not_ , he was a _reformed_ supervillain _–_ but even as he’d opened his mouth, a sickening weight in his belly knew that she was right. And so he’d just stood there, mute and open-mouthed, as shame burned on his face.

 _Why_? Andrew thought furiously, clutching his comforter closer to his chest. _Why_ would he still care about what Warren would think of him? For one thing, Warren was _dead_. For another thing, he was _evil_. Warren had been a dark influence in Andrew’s life, a dangerous seducer leading him down the thorny path of villainy, and Andrew knew better than that now! Being evil was bad, and Andrew wanted no part in it.

So why did he _care_?

Frustrated, Andrew punched at his pillow and let out what was meant to be a manly growl, but ended up just sounding like a whine.

There was a painful tightness in his chest, and as Andrew swallowed, he felt his eyes burn warningly. _Deep breaths_ , he thought firmly. _Deep breaths – you’re not going to cry_.

But the deep ache in his chest didn’t fade. Andrew squeezed his eyes shut, and, despite himself, the image of Warren’s easy smile surfaced in his mind. It was a warm, laughing smile – in the thrill of a successful heist, Warren would offer it to Andrew like a private joke, usually accompanied by a gentle squeeze of his elbow or shoulder. Andrew had been intoxicated by those little touches, that small show of affection; he would feel light as a bird, and as Warren turned his attention away, Andrew would be left desperate for more. He would have done _anything_ to earn another one of those smiles. Warren had been full of laughter and brightness, and Andrew had firmly believed there was no greater feeling in the world than to be invited to share in that.

It had been a long time since Andrew had seen one of Warren’s smiles.  And, likely, he never would again. The thought made his breath freeze in his chest.

But it hadn’t all been smiles and little touches, Andrew reminded himself furiously. Warren was exhilarating and addictive when he was happy, but when his mood was soured, he’d been downright terrifying. He shouted and raged and knew exactly what words to say to make Andrew feel like he was two inches tall. And the master plans were dizzyingly beautiful, but by the time Andrew managed to catch his breath, too often he found himself cowering under darkness he’d earlier refused to see. There had been murder and rape and death, and there was blood on Andrew’s hands, and the shininess of villainy had vanished – he was terrified and confused and the comics had never been like this and Andrew just wanted to go home—

And the worst thing of it was: Warren had never even _cared_.

Those warm smiles, those little touches – they had all meant nothing. They’d been tools to twist Andrew’s loyalty, nothing more. To Warren, Andrew had just been the equivalent of a pet dog: well-trained, devoted, and adoring. Useful. But never worthy of respect, never deserving of true affection. And no matter what brilliant master plans Andrew concocted, no matter his legacy as a Watcher, no matter even his newly-toned body, Warren would never have seen him any differently.

Andrew clutched at his pillow and rolled over, still holding it over his face, as if to shut out the world.

It didn’tmatter, he thought firmly. He _didn’t_ want Warren anymore. No matter how much he missed those smiles, no matter how incredible it would be to finally earn Warren’s respect . . . it didn’t matter. Warren was evil. Andrew was _good_ (or, at least, he was working on it). He didn’t need Warren.

The second song faded out. In the moment of silence that fell over the room, Andrew breathed.

Then the shuffle selected the next song, and Andrew almost fell out of the bed at the sudden energy of Bon Jovi’s enthusiastic: “ _Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame--!_ ”

Hastily, he scrambled for the remote – but then, as his finger hovered over the ‘skip’ button, he paused, and slowly pushed himself upright. Bon Jovi had point. Warren _did_ give love a bad name.

For a long moment, Andrew just sat on the edge of his bed, head slightly cocked.

But by the time the chorus blasted through the speakers, he was standing upright on his bed, a Star Trek Original Series communicator clutched in one hand like a microphone, and he was belting out the lyrics at the top of his lungs. He was horribly off-key, and his voice cracked on the highest notes, but it didn’t matter. Something in his chest had begun to lighten. In his newfound burst of energy, Andrew bounced on the mattress at the second repeat of: “ _You give love a bad name – a bad name!”_ – but then, hearing an ominous creak below him, quickly decided that dancing with both feet firmly planted on the mattress was good enough. 

When the last chords of the song faded away, tears were streaming steadily down Andrew’s cheeks, but he was grinning.

Over the next several weeks, the newly birthed _Andrew Wells’ Super-Empowering “Who Needs Warren Anyway?” Playlist_ grew in both tracks and playcount. It was pop, and punk, and country, and indie – Andrew wasn’t selective – and at first, he’d had the playlist almost constantly on loop. For years, the loss of Warren had weighed heavy in his chest, but the sound of his new favorite songs blasted into his ears lent him the energy to harden his resolve. He steeled himself and lifted his chin: he was done with Warren, and _thank_ _god_.

In time, he played the mix less and less. The weight in his chest had lifted, and he felt tall – taller than he ever had felt around Warren. Sometimes, Andrew would still find himself thinking back on Warren’s smile and aching with longing, and that’s when the playlist would come back on. But the times when he needed that slowly became fewer and further in between, until, had he ever burned the playlist onto a physical CD, it would have been collecting dust in the shadowy, forgotten corner of one of his drawers. (Sometimes, Andrew considered making the CD just so he _could_ tangibly ignore it – having not pressed ‘play’ on iTunes for six months simply didn’t have the same cold shoulder as a layer of dust.)

Warren was gone, and Andrew was okay. He’d never needed Warren anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for fun, I actually made the "Who Needs Warren Anyway?" playlist! It is available [here](http://8tracks.com/kiraninblue/andrew-wells-super-empowering-who-needs-warren-anyway-playlist). (And if some of these songs were released after season 9, Andrew _was_ singing to "Born This Way" in the comics, so pop-culture precognitive Andrew is totally canon.)


	3. Chapter 3

The metal box weighed cold in Andrew’s hands, the layer of dust smudging under his fingertips. Across the top of the box, a steady hand had printed, in even capital letters: _“Warren Mears_ ”.

The old lair truly was a mess. The once carefully organized shelves were broken and tilted, spilling their contents onto the dusty floor. The wall had crumbled all along one side, and a large crack in the ceiling emitted a steady draft. Maybe once, this place had been a cozy hideout, but now it was just broken, cold, and abandoned. It was fitting, Andrew thought wryly.

With a careful hand, he took the handle of the box in his grasp and lifted up the lid. Nestled in the lined interior of the box lay a single vial of blood and a USB pen drive. One DNA sample and one personality matrix. One complete resurrection kit.

Andrew had known this was waiting for him; he had planned for it. He was changing all the rules today. By the time he was done, resurrection would be easier than ever, and loved ones could return to the people they’d left behind – no longer would illness, accidents, or murder tear them apart. All you’d need is one DNA sample and one record of who they were.

And this small box had both of those in one convenient place, accessible to anyone with even the passing desire to return Warren back to the world of the living. The thought alone made Andrew's breath still. Warren could return . . . indifferent, power-hungry Warren, who could plan a murder with a smile and toy with even those he’d called _friend_. Under the new rules, all it would take would be one person who thought Warren was worth the risk. Andrew didn’t know where Amy was these days – and if not her, there were still plenty of dark forces that would appreciate an ally who could break the rules and ignore his conscience.

Andrew couldn’t let that happen. He turned the box upside down, dumping the contents onto the rocky floor.

He lifted one foot and took a deep breath, steeling himself for the expected emotional onslaught. But . . . other than the breathtaking sense of enormity than rose up in his chest, the only thing he felt was a calm determination. There was no pain; no uncertainty. He’d been done with Warren a long time.

His foot came down, hard, and the vial and memory stick shattered.

* * *

The translucent, glowing figure of Jonathan stood before Andrew, his eyebrows drawn tightly together as he pulled back a fist, looking as if he were about to attempt to punch Andrew again.

“I’m going to fix it,” Andrew said hurriedly, holding one hand in front of his face to protect himself, although he knew that Jonathan, being a collection of photons and not even force-fields, couldn’t hurt him. “I’ve got your DNA sample here. I never used it before because the best I could’ve done is make a test-tube baby, or a robot body. And I’ve had . . . hiccups with those. But now magic is new again . . . raw and undefined. And I’ve got the power to bend it to my will.”

Jonathan looked at him . . . and then the anger melted from his expression, as quickly as it’d come. “Sold!” he said, a small smile pulling at one corner of his lips. “Let’s get started.”

That was Jonathan for you. _Murder him_ , and even that he could forgive.

Friendship with Jonathan hadn’t meant smiles that blazed as bright as the sun; it hadn’t meant little touches or the words Andrew had wanted to hear. Friendship with Jonathan had meant bickering and wrestling and even the occasional fistfight. But it’d also meant that when Andrew had been scared and lost, and his heart was breaking in two, Jonathan had been there to feed him and find lodging and just be company. Andrew had turned on Jonathan, and yet Jonathan had stayed to take care of him. He’d been like a brother to Andrew – except better, because Jonathan had been there when Tucker hadn’t.

And Andrew had killed him. Andrew felt that long-familiar burn of guilt twist in his gut.

“We will – just bear with me,” he promised. “There’s one more stop on the resurrection tour.”

Jonathan’s brow furrowed. “Who?” he asked. Then, he paused, and glanced meaningfully around the broken lair. “Hang on . . . where’s Warren?”

“Gone.”

“Is that who—?“

“No,” Andrew replied. “Not him. No more Warren.”

His tone was calm, almost indifferent, but Jonathan had always been smart. He leveled a steady gaze at Andrew – there was no way a hologram’s stare had any right to be so perceptive – and the ghost of an expression Andrew couldn’t quite name flitted across his face.

“ . . . Yeah, okay,” Jonathan said finally. “So who are we bringing back?”

“There’s someone we really hurt with our big domination plans. Well, a lot of people, actually. But, like . . . in particular. I gotta put it right.”

“So, a redemption quest? We’re done with the whole evil thing?”

“ . . . Yeah. Evil wasn’t cool.” Andrew dropped his eyes and fiddled with adjusting the strap of his messenger bag. Of course, the record of Jonathan’s memories hadn’t been updated since long before the Trio had collapsed. The last this Jonathan knew, they’d just fled their old lair and were lying low to avoid Buffy and her gang.

Andrew heaved a deep breath, struggling to compose his thoughts into some sort of coherent summary of years’ worth of life lessons. But then – when he lifted his eyes, he saw that a wide grin had spread across Jonathan’s face.

“ _Thank God_ ,” Jonathan said vehemently.

A wave of relief washed over Andrew, and he grinned. Jonathan _had_ alwaysbeen smart.

“Well, come on,” he said, snapping his messenger bag shut again. “The sooner I get this done, the sooner I can bring you back, too.”

“Sure. You need to power me down now?”

“Just for a bit – that okay?”

“Yeah – just put me on standby, though. I need to work on my back-from-the-dead celebration plans,” Jonathan said cheerfully. “To be honest, I never thought you guys would care enough to bring me back if I died, so I didn’t really think about it before.”

Andrew winced slightly. “I’m sorry I acted like that. I should have been a better friend to you.”

But Jonathan just shrugged. “You’re here now, so hey, better late than never. Come on – let’s get going! And if you need any help with the resurrection thing, just turn me on, okay?” Then, he paused. “Er . . . ignore the way that came out.”

Andrew sniggered, and lifted a hand to the techno-glasses perched on his nose. “Talk to you later, dude.”

He pressed a button on the side of the frame. The image of Jonathan flickered and went out.

For a long moment, Andrew stood there in the center of the lair, eyes fixed on the spot where the holographic projection of one of the best friends he’d ever had had just been. He let out a long breath. For years, he’d lived under the shadow of Warren’s influence, distant from the other Scoobies and terrified of himself. He’d walked a lonely path, and it seemed any way he turned, the ghost of Warren loomed. It felt like almost a decade had passed since Jonathan had bled out on the ground before him.

But today, Andrew was changing all the rules.

With one last glance at the broken room, he hoisted the messenger bag higher up on his shoulder and pulled himself out of the lair.


End file.
